Best Writing Style Poems
Andrea D?...No brainer:
Dandy
Andie
Or in her younger, wilder days she may have been:
Randy
Andie?
(Just kidding! Just kid...Ouch!)
I have no choice but to categorize several poems by my mentor as:
Guzzi's
Doozies
(Now don't YOU start on me Deb!)
Ms. Macmillan's writing style is quite modern so here-to-forth she is:
Trendy
Cyndi
(You're not gonna' hit me too are you Cyndi?)
It is rumored that Mr. O is a care-free soul so some might name him:
Groovin'
Ruben
And be sure to keep up with current South African events in the:
Suzette
Gazette
A Christmas poem composed by Carol Brown could be a:
Carol
Carol
Writer's block PD? No sweat!...Just a temporary case of:
Souper
Stupor
Okay, that's enough...
My heart
cr
ump
led
like the screwed up scraps of paper
now languishing in the trash bin
okay, so I write humourous poems ...
I rarely write 'free verse'
or 'perfect' iambic pentameter
yet you lambasted me
Your cruel words tore me apart
my writing style will NEVER be good enough to please YOU
So screw you...
YOU'VE WON
I QUIT
My pen will bleed no more
scaly scabs now prevent the ink from running ...
submitted to favorite free verse not for any contest
Sponsored by laura Loo
04~20~17
Our community builders make all this worthwhile .
The poetry , prose and each new writing style
Encouraging compliments ; offering praise
Will guide writers home , thro' life's lonely maze .
We've got Sharon and Sandra , they know what to do .
And Kristin is now ,the queen of Haiku .
Marycile writes the quaint old refrain
Like Karen O'Leary , D-nyce and Elaine .
Vince has the wise words that need to be said .
Joe's still the man , according to Fred .
Mother Cat purrs and that's no surprise
Like the words from 2 Michaels and Heidi Buys .
We hope that John Heck will return , as planned
With his power of expression , just like Brian Strand .
Catie and Carol are great , and they know
That Fred is the man , according to Joe .
Each reply is special , like each thought you penned,
The time time that you took , with the kind word you send .
Yes ! it's nice to be nice , and when someone takes time
To aknowledge the efforts , you made with each rhyme ,
Or the quaint observation , you captured with style .
Our community builders will make it worthwile .
PS . Encouragement helps create inspiration..... Continue to be INSPIRED .......
There's a gal named PamelaKaye
Her writing style, poetic buffet
A sweet Texas tart
Who has a big heart
And a buttocks the size of Bombay
I suppose I’m a poetic clown
I’m content with life, I don’t get down
And I’ll deny the rumour
Brits have no sense of humour
This injustice will sure make me frown
I confirm I’m not much of a poet
My writing style sucks and I know it
I use silly words
Like boobies and turds
I amuse folks just by using my wit
In reality I’m pretty quiet
And I’ve never been tempted to diet
I am a mother and wife
And I just cherish my life
You won’t find me out causing a riot
Contest Who do you think you are
Sponsor Caren Krutsinger
8/27/18
A poet
par excellence.
A pen's
best friend. He has...
kind puppy-dog eyes
his poems
dazzle;
blows the mind
and his
writing style,
distinctive,
He's the next best thing
to Pablo Neruda.
a
wonderful human!
(Yalto)
Pick a Friend on Soup Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Bobby May (Winner: 3rd Place)
Date written and submitted: 09/25/2019
Below is a quote written by one of my favorite authors Rod McKuen. He has been one of my greatest inspirations and his book "Listen To The Warm" changed my writing style. I wrote essays about him in high school and have read all his wonderful books that took me on a journey where no one else ever has. Unfortunately he passed away February 2015. I decided to write a poem based on his quote.
"It happens just because we need to want, and to be wanted too,
when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and...
listen to the warm.” -Rod McKuen
I hear it so gently; the warmth of our silence.
For me and you, yes us two, we grew…
after all we’ve been through....
Be still, my love…
The observations we saw while sitting in our room,
reminded me of the yesteryears; old days of yore.
Let bygones be bygones and follow the warmth
we created in silence beneath two lover’s sheets.
"I'll always need you, my sweet."
As days go by and the nights come too quick
I hear your heart beat as I lay on your chest.
Ears connected to hearts, and hearts connected into
one, forever dreaming of sweet tunes only we
can sing.
Let there be stillness in our laughter, yet
tears in our smile, expressing all the magic we have
built up over twenty years of warm silence.
I may be clamorous during the day but
as the night closes in I will always be speechless
in your arms.
Lay with me during the cold days and walk with
me in the warm. Feel my hand entwined
with yours as lover’s do so often. The only difference
is that me and you…yes…us two…
will always calmly subdue….
I’ll rest myself on your lap and you can hold
me until our daily routines begin.
Please don’t go just yet, stay with me here,
I need you to breath and you need not fear.
I always had wondered and now I know why,
we were meant to be us since that night in Versailles.
So hush…sweet man…let’s do what only lovers can…
stay by my side, hand by hand,
Tonight we shall lay together as one,
and we shall wake up in the morning
as still as the sun, waiting in anticipation to
hear with readied ears…
~listening to the warmth of our silence~
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: April 8, 2016
RESPONSE TO RUMI
Tell the Friend I’m coming, with a wine sack and a thirst.
Been too long in solitude, got a sickness in my bones.
Pray? Where was Shams when my need was so great?
“Suffer the pain…it’s the only rule”, you said.
When governed by nafs you are like the dry mule
Being steered away from the trough into the hot sun.
To become a garden one must, first, be a desert;
To become a lover one must, first, be a seeker.
The Master says, “Love is your true health…
The wine we always mention.” And the Dervish
Dances, a dust mote in this “play of presences”.
He knows the door to reality is an illusion,
A delusion…one drink away…and he dances.
So come with me, my Sufi friend, and heal me,
Take this empty goblet and fill me up!
Let’s get totally sick and submerge ourselves
In the sweet springwater. Let the wine flow!
Let love flow! Bathe our “body, soul, shadow”.
Dec. 3/16 ~ for contest Response to Rumi quote:
"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill,
let yourself fall ill."
- Jelaluddin Rumi
NOTES:
All quoted passages are Rumi himself, mostly form his Rubai quatrains. The word nafs is from the Qur’an and refers to the lower self, the ego.
This is really a dialogue through a third party to Rumi (until the last five lines when we do meet) using his teachings and writing style (or as close as we can get via translations ~ Coleman Barks does the best for me), that is, laying out the problem, discuss the viewpoints and then find a resolution.
Sorry about the tail-rhyme, you can replace the word flow in line 17 with spill but I think you’ll find it carries more weight as a rhyming couplet. Actually, I worked very hard not to rhyme, there were two others that I was able to erase from my original draft.
I gulp a flame of desire
At the sight of your ecclesiastical attire
Being proxy for a pacifier
That elicits a comfort for my quagmire
Your smile, your smile
A sun in a darkened profile
A moon that illuminates the eventide.
Oh lily of the while
You let your movement twist my writing style
And your utterances, parch my bile
Your cheek,
Comely and with a perfect sleek
It brings forth my devotion like to a holy week
My arteries gape and tweak...
When your eyes greet my eyes in streak
And I feel your eyes can unbend an oblique
When you call my name, l inhale peace
Right from the direction of your sheen anatomical masterpiece.
It flows into my centrepiece
And makes me say "how I need this! "
This aura of hightened affection
Induces my heart's rhythm section
My pulse beats to the sequence of your rock n' roll session
Your complexion,
Makes me want to have no objection
To any of your imperfection
But to uphold your perfection
Your entirety is graced
Euphoric and grippingly fun-aced
Your pulchritude is emphatically embraced
And your probity, well showcased
Appeals to my aftertaste
Once have you spoken, twice have I heard
Like you stole the password
Securing my ghost word
From where I will fangle your byword
Please don't make it your watchword
Rather let us build on the foreword
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
here be en emimy of tombstone jack
his eminy tried to shoot em back
but ole jack made em see the light
he done it fastr en he done it right
jack showd em the errer to his ways
he sure enoff put the end to his days
jack doe sent em to his eternal bed
with six guns ablazin en a heap of lead
Im aguessin he wanted em dead
at least that be what the rumerin said
now ole jack he done hisself a goodin
he done left the bar maid a cryin en wooin
worrin hed be alayin here a bullit ta his head
pushin up dayzes instead of winin a trade in lead
Author's Note:
the spelling, grammatical errors, and the dialect are done
intentionally. It is my attempt to keep within the 1800's era
writing style. A writer of that time was lucky to be able to write
their own name.
Any Poetess knows her writing style.
She knows her swagger.
Her arrogance is in her words.
She struts even when she is not being vulgar.
She is a Poetry Diva.
Visionary
A Dreamer
True Reformer
Excellent
Diva of Poetry
Her mind is preoccupied to her theme.
She is topical in her poetry scheme.
She mesmerizes her vocabulary.
She is a Foreign Indian's Fairy.
A Poetry Diva's libretti conjure.
Unique
First-class
Idyllic Rhymester
A Wordsmith of Poetry
Bard – A Diva
Many times, she deciphers.
More than often, she’ll depict.
It would be her expression she lives within.
She is refined.
Within veracity, a Poetry Diva speaks her mind.
Versifier
Set your soul afire
Awaken your spirit into night
Lyricist
Diva Poetess
Ill-mannered she is not.
She does not write half-cocked.
She can be so male gaited.
Golden is her unique way.
A Poetry Diva is a platformer.
Wonderful
Magnificent
Ideal Utopian
Such a romantic lover,
Poetry Diva is enamored!
_______________|
Penned April 24, 2014!
For Kelly Deschler Contest Poems About Poetry
2nd Place
I draw daydreams devoid of grammar.
Jumble memories with synonyms.
Cook laughter with adjectives.
Flirt with rhymings.
Drool over oxymorons.
My masterpiece is not just another
crushed paper.
Or left stale at the back of a
hotel bill.
Or a long text message
killed slowly
with backspace.
It is not just another word document
punctured with punctuations,
pathetically clutching the clauses,
with wasted verbs,
privileged by pronouns.
It is a canvas hidden with puzzles,
masking the festering wounds,
concealing a story
written in haste and hurry.
Its my medicine that I can't take
for the disease I can't fake.
Ma says I'm a dreamer.
I smile slyly.
She never know I wrote things for her.
How her fingertips rubbing my scalp,
Stifling my hair
brings calm to my storms.
How her laughter to my lamest jokes
brings rainbow to my colorblind eyes!
They say, writers are over thinkers
who weaves drama
connecting sunsets and deaths.
I say YES!
My naked words
quivered with shame
facing your pointy fingers.
So I dressed them with strike offs,
replacing them with meticulous metaphors.
They were as genuine as my freckles.
Also as shy as my face.
Maybe, that's why I covered them
with my hair of laced lies and butterflies.
So never tell a writer
that her poems are plain!
she's not an upset stomach
that throws up thesaurus.
Never suggest a writer
a new Instagram infected writing style!
She'll take it.
And while you smile
She'll break it.
A writer dance for the tune of phonetics.
Plan a night out with personifications
and never think twice to
break up with your judgements
building up a tall wall of ignorance
which lets in only the legit critics.
A writer stitches gore with similes,
Iron it with ironies,
Wears it with the pretense
of happiness.
But when you say -
"It is beautiful"
and walk away,
You killed her with the blunt blade of cliché!
Belleville Boys
- by Bob Atkinson
walk the streets of
our old town
thoughts of fame not
unfounded
tell us if our
hearts conform
with success to be
adorned
here on those
sidewalks laid for
us
by streets of
asphalt drawn from
dust
lights which shine
for us at night
below the stars of
heavens might
we desire to succeed
we develop from
another breed
we transform
ourselves again
into a newly formed
music band
names will change
along our path
some come along,
some don't last
some add to our
candle power
some step back, some
stand for honor
Connie sang the
"Sorry" song
Bert and Harry had
penned so long
ago, seems ages, but
was nice
when she our hearts
sliced with a knife
Tommy dreamed of
success
as did Nick and
Frankie, Bob
whom Joe presented
to the guys
as wonderment in
writing style
Shorts had success
in history
Cheri started the
money tree
life goes on toward
open progress
twists and turns
leave some
despondent
for the memories
these guys made
as we went through
our phases
their style, their
efforts well
appreciated
from this side of
life's directive
we thank them all
for their work
their toil, their
songs written in our
book
those memories now
folded into
the fabric of our
grasp of future
to those who have
not seen the sights
of minds expanded by
these guys
we present them as a
legacy
of dreams
accomplished with
energy
Ernest Hemingway;
Him had his way,
Earnest Hemingway.
Not much a poet I would say,
I like him anyway...
Had so many things to say.
Though married many wives,
Couldn’t keep em,
For with other women he was sleeping!
I know for in his Bio…
I’ve been peeping,
And into his writing style…
I’m slowly creeping!